


Refuge

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dry Humping, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hoarded in Formenos, Maglor can’t go to others, but Maiar can come to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephe’s “Maglor/Eonwe (with smut)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s skeptical, at first, and hesitant to come, but the letter is in Kanafinwë’s flowing script, and Eönwë doesn’t have quite the heart to deny it. He has no doubt that Fëanáro chose his second son on purpose—Eönwë’s never bothered to hide his affection for the beautiful Noldor that used to sing below his window. Despite all of Fëanáro’s wrongs, the letter is polite, almost pleading, and Eönwë ultimately follows it to exile.

Formenos is not an ugly place. But walking through its gates is far different than those of Tirion. He knows that other Eldar would not be permitted inside, but the servants draw back the walls for him, and he enters with his head high. No matter how Fëanáro fortifies himself, the Valar and their Maiar may go wherever they wish in all these lands. When Eönwë’s reached the inner sanctum, he expects Fëanáro himself to step through the grand doors and offer a stern greeting. Instead, Kanafinwë is the one to rush from a window to draw the entrance open, a welcome smile on his handsome face. He stands before Eönwë in luxurious robes of sky-blue and lavender, painted with the twisting whites of clouds and silhouetted branches. His black hair is drawn up in an elegant bun, a few stray strands endearingly dipping loose. Diamonds are strung about his neck and pleated in his hair, silver bangles and rings upon his wrists and fingers. He is, without any room for doubt, overwhelmingly _beautiful_.

Eönwë dips his head in formal greeting, and Kanafinwë practically sings, “Eönwë. I am so glad you came.”

It always gives Eönwë joy to hear his name spill from those fair lips. He returns, “I could not refuse your letter,” and allows Kanafinwë to sweep forward and wrap two delicate hands around his arm. He’s guided deeper into the hall, then turned down a corridor. Eönwë imagines he’s being brought to council chambers, where Fëanáro will either seek an ally or pry for information on his brothers’ plans. But the room Kanafinwë opens into looks more like bedchambers, and no one else is inside.

Kanafinwë shuts the door behind them, then takes Eönwë over to the grand four-poster bed, lined in a thick crimson blanket, and bids him to sit. He perches on the end. The curtains in the large room are drawn across the tall windows, but the fireplace is lit and candles line the walls. It has a dark but intimate feel, licked in flickering yellow-orange light. Kanafinwë sinks gracefully to the floor, where he kneels at Eönwë’s feet. The sight does something strange to the Eldar form Eönwë’s grown used to wearing—his chest clenches. Kanafinwë places his slender hands on Eönwë’s knees and asks, “Is there anything I may do for you?” His tone makes it sound like _my lord_ should be on the end, though Kanafinwë is the one with a true title. Eönwë lifts one golden brow.

Confused, he replies, “That was my question.” He had assumed, of course, that the letter was on behalf of the true ruler of these halls. “Does your father not wish to speak with me...?”

“Perhaps he will, when he learns you are here,” Kanafinwë muses, which gives Eönwë a tremendous flicker of surprise—Fëanáro’s sons have always proven fiercely loyal to him. It never occurred to him that the letter might be sent without Fëanáro’s knowledge. With an enchanting smile, Kanafinwë purrs, “It is _I_ who wished for you, though I confess speech was not my only desire. ...Unless that is all you wish, of course. I would fulfill your every whim, if you permit me.”

Eönwë... doesn’t understand. Eönwë says nothing, only looks into Kanafinwë’s shimmering eyes, every bit as deep and alluring as the rest of him. He doesn’t need the string of jewels around his neck; he is a jewel himself. When Eönwë doesn’t answer, Kanafinwë slowly lifts higher on his knees, his back arching forward and his plush lips parting. Eönwë is entranced.

Eönwë is given a soft, too-fleeting kiss. Kanafinwë’s mouth brushes hesitantly over his, and then Kanafinwë sinks dutifully back to the floor, his head bowing in submission. He sighs with wistful sorrow, “I know, of course, that I cannot hope to tempt a great Maia. ...But I had just recently heard that some do like to experience... ah, forgive me: _carnal pleasures_ , and... I hope I do not overstep when I say that some think you have an eye for me.”

Not _an_ eye: two. If there was ever an elf that could tempt Eönwë to ‘carnal pleasures’, it would be this one. But it’s not something he would’ve thought of on his own. The mere mention of it stirs his body in unfamiliar ways. He’s still... _learning_ how these shells work. He _stares_ at the pretty creature knelt at his feet and wavers between thrill and trepidation.

Finally, when it occurs to him and the thought won’t be dismissed, he asks slowly, “Is this your father’s doing? To forge an alliance with me, with Manwë... through the offer of your body?”

Kanafinwë looks up then, eyes wide, at first, before slipping into a sad smile and a quiet noise. Eönwë knows he’s spoken wrong, but it’s too late to take it back. In a small voice, Kanafinwë murmurs, “Do you truly think so little of him? That he would buy support with the right of his sons?”

He’d like to think not. But truth be told, Eönwë no longer knows what the eldest son of Finwë is capable of. If only for the hurt on Kanafinwë’s face, he would apologize. Before he can, Kanafinwë shakes his head and insists, “No. It was I who summoned you, and I am pleased that you granted my wish. I wish only to return the favour. I crave _company._ I do not regret following my father—I would again, and any time after that he asked it of me—but...”

But. It hangs heavy in the air. Eönwë drops one hand to cup Kanafinwë’s warm face, his thumb tracing the line of one high cheek. The touch is every bit as pleasing as their kiss was, and Eönwë marvels at the way Kanafinwë leans into his palm, lashes fluttering. Eldar skin is so _sensitive._ Eönwë finishes the thought: “But you are too great a bird to be caged.” Kanafinwë smiles with the compliment. His strength isn’t what appeals to Eönwë, but this softness. He holds such _art_ inside him.

He turns to press his lips into Eönwë’s palm, lingering there long enough for a lewd tremble to twist its way along Eönwë’s spine. Eönwë assures him, “There is no need to secure me with bodily pleasures. If company is what you wish, then company you shall have. You are not the one being punished.” And Eönwë, in this position, isn’t sure he could resist if he wanted to. 

Kanafinwë relinquishes Eönwë’s grip on his cheek. He rises leisurely to his feet, letting the hand fall away, and brings his own out to slide over Eönwë’s shoulders. He wears no armour today—it would’ve been folly to come to Fëanáro in anything but rich robes. They’re crisply white, as would be the feathers of the wings he sometimes dons. Kanafinwë holds them loosely and purrs, deep and lilting, “What I want is to feel hands on my flesh again.” He presses forward, one knee hiking onto the bed beside Eönwë’s leg, then the other; he brings himself into Eönwë’s lap, his weight a pleasant warmth that Eönwë savours. “I want to show you that just because I am no longer there to sing below your window, I would still bring you any joy as you would have.” The _joy_ he promises is now clear. Eönwë’s heart breaks to think that this lovely creature has been stifled so by Fëanáro’s foolishness. But then, Kanafinwë chose to follow. The sons of Fëanáro are stubborn. 

But he _desires_ this one. Kanafinwë makes him understand the meaning of the word. He finds himself reaching for Kanafinwë’s trim hips, long fingers sliding across the silken robes. The jewels about Kanafinwë’s throat catch the light and shine with it, but his eyes are what most hold Eönwë’s attention. Eönwë follows the sweeping contours of his face and lingers on the softness and faint glimmer of his lips, then murmurs with near reverence, “You are very beautiful.”

“I must be,” Kanafinwë returns, though his voice is devoid of any ego, “to be able to draw a Maia to me so.”

Manwë may have sent Eönwë to any that asked. Fëanáro thinks himself mighty, but the Valar still oversee it all. Yet it’s true that Eönwë has yet to sit with any other this way, and he tilts forward before the thought has finished fluttering through his mind—Kanafinwë comes in to meet him. They share a tentative kiss, until Kanafinwë surges forward to flatten their bodies together, from their hips to their chest, face tilting to better maneuver around their noses and tongue coming out to swipe at Eönwë’s seam. Eönwë opens and lets Kanafinwë slide in, but as soon as Eönwë has learned of this concept, he returns it in greater force—he plunges his own tongue into Kanafinwë’s wet mouth and sweeps over the walls—traces tongue and teeth—memorizes the exquisite _feeling_ of breathing Kanafinwë in. Kanafinwë makes the most endearing little mewling noise, his fingers tightening in Eönwë’s robes. Eönwë draws Kanafinwë all the harder against him. His crotch is stirring. This vessel knows what it wants, even if the sensations are all foreign. He only ends the searing kiss when he remembers that Kanafinwë must breathe.

Then Kanafinwë is panting hard in his lap, face flushed and lashes heavy. His pupils have grown wide into his irises. Eönwë tucks a stray hair away from his face and back behind his ear. Kanafinwë’s mouth—now _so enticing_ —wraps into a smile. He gives a little laugh and shakes his head, admitting, “I did not believe that you would kiss me so.”

Eönwë asks curiously, “Is that not what you wrote me for?”

“It is as I hoped,” Kanafinwë acquiesces with a short nod. “But not as I expected.”

Nor Eönwë. But he’s committed to this form and worn it long enough to experience it fully. There’s no good reason to deny himself the pleasure Kanafinwë so sweetly asks for. He brings his hand to Kanafinwë’s collar and wonders if this is when he’ll finally see his favourite of the firstborn stripped free of earthly things. But perhaps he’ll leave the crystals. They were forged more with Ilúvatar’s own hands than the robes Kanafinwë wears, and they’re worthy of his glory. 

Kanafinwë begs, “Please.” Eönwë has one flickering thought of how much Kanafinwë’s missed this—who did he leave behind in Tirion that couldn’t come now? But then, it doesn’t truly matter. The house of Fëanáro is proud, and they don’t settle, not even this one. Kanafinwë does _want him_. He can see that.

He unfastens the first silver clasp that holds Kanafinwë’s robes together, then dips lower to repeat the action. Kanafinwë arches forward with a subdued keening noise and hesitantly places his hands on the ties of Eönwë’s robes. Eönwë nods his head, and Kanafinwë, grinning demurely for it, returns the favour. They strip one another in slow, even strides, but all of Eönwë’s focus is on the body before him. Kanafinwë is tall, slender, smooth, all creamy skin and taut muscles, soft tones and the careful jut of bones. His dark nipples are slightly pebbled in the center, perhaps from the open air, and when Eönwë pauses to press his thumb against one, it stiffens harder. Kanafinwë’s breath catches, so Eönwë rubs it in a little circle and gently tugs it until it’s as stiff as it can manage. Then he drifts to the other and repeats the process, enjoying the responsive way Kanafinwë shivers and mewls. Eönwë can’t help but wonder if Kanafinwë was made specifically to tempt him. 

If so, it’s working. Eönwë reveals the tight lines of Kanafinwë’s stomach, down into the small dot of his navel, while Eönwë’s own robes are drawn open to his waist. Kanafinwë runs his hands everywhere, warm palms and all ten fingers spread, feeling all they can, as though Eönwë doesn’t plan to return again and again. Fëanáro may have deprived the good people of his sons, but he won’t deny Kanafinwë the physical relief his body needs while Eönwë still lives. As Eönwë’s fingers hesitate around the sash at Kanafinwë’s waist, Kanafinwë turns sideways and tenderly tugs at him. Eönwë allows himself to be guided to the mattress, the two of them lying lengthwise across it, on their sides and facing one another, hands still exploring. Kanafinwë doesn’t protest when Eönwë draws his sash loose. Eönwë deposits it behind him and parts what’s left of Kanafinwë’s robes. They open to reveal the long line of one shapely leg, which shifts aside for Eönwë to observe the treasure that lies between. Kanafinwë wears nothing underneath. His lithe cock lies prone against the mattress, flushed darker than the rest of him with a tip starting to crown. Eönwë wraps his hand around it on sheer instinct.

Kanafinwë moans deliciously and ducks his head into Eönwë’s, hands pausing to clutch at Eönwë’s parted robes. Eönwë waits out the tremor that snakes through Kanafinwë’s body, and then Kanafinwë licks his lips and goes on to part Eönwë’s the same way. Eönwë’s cock is slightly larger, a little more curved, with less visible rivulets of veins and much lighter hair around the base, though his skin is darker. Kanafinwë moans again at the sight of it and asks in a hoarse whisper, “May I truly...”

“It would please me to give the pleasure you so clearly crave,” Eönwë insists. He bends forward to press a kiss to Kanafinwë’s forehead, and Kanafinwë struggles and nods. He wraps trembling fingers around Eönwë’s shaft and gives a little squeeze that brings Eönwë a quick flash of euphoria. Kanafinwë shuffles their hips together, so their cocks brush, and he does his best to get his hand around both, pinning them along side one another. The feeling is blissful. Eönwë smoothly rocks his hips to feel them slide along each other, and Kanafinwë cries out and bucks into him.

“You are... so good to me...” Kanafinwë moans, breathless between each roll of his hips. Eönwë holds them together as Kanafinwë does and lets his hips do as they will, bringing friction and greater heat to an already perfect feeling. Kanafinwë tries to reciprocate but isn’t as steady as Eönwë’s thrusts. 

Eönwë shifts to use his free hand to cup Kanafinwë’s face again. He brings it to him for a telling kiss that he means to be brief but stretches into several. Each time he tries to pull away, Kanafinwë will catch his bottom lip in blunt teeth or suck at his tongue, and he’ll continue to stake his claim on Kanafinwë’s mouth. The kiss is almost as powerful as their rocking hips. This close, Eönwë can smell the lavender shampoo Kanafinwë’s often used on his hair, can feel the internal heat to his soft flesh, can taste the bitter remnants of wine on his tongue. Each noise he makes is more poignant than the last. When Eönwë finally manages to get his mouth free long enough, he sighs fondly, “My pretty songbird...” Kanafinwë smiles like Yavanna’s trees and draws more kisses from him.

Their time together lasts as long as Eönwë can stretch it, but too soon, he can feel the tension mount in Kanafinwë’s body. Kanafinwë’s cock twitches in his hand, then spurts against the sheets, and Kanafinwë shudders and cries out, arching forward and burying tight into Eönwë’s shoulder. Everything about it is beautiful—the sudden lines of his body, the strained song he spills, the heat he radiates and the scent of his arousal. It builds in Eönwë like liquid fire, fanning greater with every second, until it grows all consuming and bursts across his skin. Eönwë slams himself into Kanafinwë hard enough to roll them over, and then he finds himself digging his handsome lover into the blankets while his hips slam furiously forward and his head reels with release. For a moment, his mind has detached from this form, existing only in a hazy, cloud-like _good_.

Then he starts to spiral back down again, filling out his own body while their mutual release pools between them. Kanafinwë is breathing hard. Eönwë is wracked with tremors. He feels immensely satiated. He slips to Kanafinwë’s side but keeps half-draped over him, an arm across his chest and a leg between his thighs. 

Eventually, Eönwë asks, “Why me?”

“Because only you could come through the gates,” Kanafinwë easily replies. His voice is strained now from his scream, quiet but peaceful. His body seems heavier. But there’s a glow about him, not just from the stray dot of sweat. “Even my father could not deny me you.” But here he pauses, and Eönwë waits, until Kanafinwë rolls a tired head towards him and sighs, “And I need your light, I think. I love my family deeply, but their power portends of more, and I think I must sometimes be humbled, lest I be swept away in the sheer might of our storm.”

Eönwë senses this too. He’s impressed with the maturity Kanafinwë shows by seeing it. But he can say no more of that, and instead admits, “I am pleased to be your light. Though I will not always be free to shine when you should need it, I hold a great fondness for you, Kanafinwë, most beautiful of all the firstborn.”

Kanafinwë dons a thin, dazzling smile, and mumbles, “I am not that.”

“You are. And should your wings become too clipped, know that you may write to me again, and I will spirit you away when I may.”

Kanafinwë looks thoroughly grateful for the offer. His eyes say it all. But his mouth says only, “My place is by my father’s side.” A pity. _Such_ a pity. But Eönwë always knew of that. “Though I will always welcome visits from you, and I promise I will do all I can to make each worth your while.” His eyes glimmer mischievously, and he rolls onto his side to face Eönwë fully, skin touching everywhere their robes are parted. “I have much time to think here, and I have many delights of flesh to share.”

Eönwë has a feeling he’ll return. But for now, he says, “There is one thing that would please me...”

And Kanafinwë insists, “Anything.”

So Eönwë rises from the bed to fetch Kanafinwë’s harp, intent on hearing another song.


End file.
